Something More Than Everything
by fyren galan
Summary: Snape was the last person Harry expected to see when he visited his parents' grave on that fateful Christmas Eve. But somehow, he was the person that Harry needed the most. SLASH.


**Disclaimer: **J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.**  
Title: **Something More Than Everything**  
Author: **fyren galan**  
Rating: **PG**  
Pairing: **Harry/Severus**  
Warnings: **slash, relationship with minor (17), flangst**  
Summary:** Snape was the last person Harry expected to see when he visited his parents' grave on that fateful Christmas Eve. But somehow, he was the person that Harry needed the most.

A/N: My entry into Kamerreon's Secret Santa Exchange 2010. I'd suggest joining her group if you want to read some awesome stories. :]

Something More Than Everything

The snow swirls around him, the powdery dust crunching softly under his boots as he walks through the deserted cemetery. He takes his time moving past each icy gravestone—some covered in bright-coloured flowers, others as barren as the nearby trees—for he knows that Hermione will let him take as long as he needs for this. He shivers in the biting wind, guessing that she is probably comfortably ensconced in the village pub with a mug of warm apple cider and a book or three.

The echoes of Christmas carols ring out behind him, coming from the small chapel down the lane. He finds it hard to believe that today of all days is Christmas Eve, the day that he and Hermione decided to come to Godric's Hollow. He looks behind him to the square where a statue of his family slowly morphs back into an obelisk. Hermione has told him that if they go down one of the roads out of town, they will go past Bathilda Bagshot's home, and then, consequently, his own. He shuts his eyes tightly and stands still for a moment, trying not to let green light and remembered screams overwhelm him.

When he feels that he is ready, he opens his eyes again and starts trudging past more headstones, their stark writing standing out against the soft glow of the streetlights. _Martha Abbot. Bowman Wright. Kendra Dumbledore. Ignotus Peverell. _The names blur into meaningless jumbles of words as he traverses further and further into the rows of stones, a cold jungle of death that he willingly navigates.

The happy congregation spills out behind him and disperses into the village and the church becomes dark and silent—yet, he still searches. And two rows behind the Dumbledore family, a white marble headstone emerges from the gloom and beckons him forward.

He falls to his knees in front of it, fingers scraping blindly at the wintry stone. He knows that there are hot tears running down his cheeks, steaming in the chilly air. He knows that his fingers are bleeding at the tips and probably slightly frost-bitten. He knows that he is kneeling in front of the death site of his beloved parents.

But all he feels is numb.

Footsteps sound softly behind him, but he doesn't turn around—Hermione can wait. He hears the sharp swish of a wand slicing through the air, and feels the magic glide past him to form a swirl of sparks and flashes that slowly turn into a wreath that settles softly onto the headstone.

He exhales slowly, moving to squat on his haunches in the slush. This magic is darker, more sorrowful, and more expressive than he thinks Hermione's ever could be. And it is undeniably masculine.

"Myrtle—for remembrance. Asphodel—my regrets follow you to the grave. Bay leaf—I change but in death. And a lily, but I suppose you already know the significance of that blossom."

He closes his eyes, letting that silky, mournful baritone wash over him. Perhaps it can wash away all his pain and regrets, as he certainly can't do that on his own.

He speaks softly, unsure if the man behind him will even be able to hear his words. "You destroyed me. I should hate you. I should want to destroy you. But somehow, I can't."

The man says nothing for long moments; Harry is at peace with this. His eyes trace longingly over the green and white circlet, and finally the man comes to crouch besides him. Their shoulders barely brush, and Harry can hardly understand the warmth that fills his entire body.

Turning his head slightly, the man breathes into Harry's ear, "I come here each year to honour the love I _once_ had for her."

And then he Apparates, leaving glittering silence and a shock-tinged smile on Harry's face.

This is the first time Harry sees something in Severus Snape.

oOo

The second time is on the grimy floor of a primitive shack, the wind creaking eerily through the cracks in the wall, puffs of dust rising from the wooden planks, as Severus Snape lies dying in a small puddle of venom and blood.

Harry fumbles for his wand next to the prone body and points it shakily at Snape's neck. The man rasps something out, but the roar in Harry's ears is too loud for him to hear it.

He leans closer, his tears cold this time as they splash on sallow cheeks. "Please don't die," he begs. "I only just—I haven't yet—I want to _know_—"

Snape has the nerve to weakly chuckle at him, and Harry starts slightly in surprise. A murmur—_stupid boy. Antidote. Front...robe..._

His tears fall faster and faster as Snape drinks from the small vial. His shoulders shake more and more as the man's colour is regained with each shallow breath. And Harry can't even tell himself why.

But now he knows there is something greater than just _something_ to Severus Snape.

oOo

Harry is nervous on the day he is set to receive the Order of Merlin, First Class. Not because of the award, or the speech he is no doubt expected to make after his acceptance. Not because of the adoring crowd or the masses of star-struck girls.

No, he trembles each time his shoulder touches the shoulder of the man next to him. The man who will be receiving the same award as Harry. The man who is so full of mystery and wonder that Harry can't even hope to ever fully understand him. The man who Harry stares at blatantly out of the corner of his eye. The man whose mouth twitches upwards slightly every time Harry blushes and looks away.

The man who, with a stern face, gently takes Harry's hand beneath the folds of their formal robes. The man who does not flinch when Harry squeezes his hand so tightly that it must hurt. The man who does not let go of Harry even as they both graciously accept their awards.

The man who Apparates Harry away to a small cottage the second the ceremony ends. The man who impresses upon him light yet fierce brushes of lips, like the wings of a moth beating towards the heavens.

Harry's tears fall this time, and Severus stops for a heartbeat, looking down questioningly. Harry shakes his head once, and surges forward, his bright smile meeting Severus's thin mouth—over and over again.

END.


End file.
